To survive Bengaluru, all you need is a little perspective

Indian Express

11 hours ago

It's past three in the afternoon, and we are on our regular trek back home, in a big blue BMTC bus, which is the acronym for the Bengaluru City public buses, after a long, hard but happy day teaching elementary school.
What should take 45-minutes is now taking double the time, something to do with the fact that almost every second road is being dug up, repaired, cemented and built upon — some roads have flyover and Metro construction work going on simultaneously — and everywhere there is a cacophony of angry honking, ambulance sirens blaring and the occasional yell from an incensed driver.
This is good, as it usually drowns out the monotonous drive-you-crazy drone of a seven-year-old chatting his buddy up, who possesses a lilting glass-shattering voice — all the way back home; they never seem to run out of things to say. Today, though, something is wrong with the bus, and there's a steady, high-pitched beeping that's promising to accompany us all the way back home, as the driver and conductor both have no idea what's causing it.
A day in the life of a typical Bangalorean, but hey, who's complaining? All you need is a little perspective.
For, if I were suddenly on my deathbed (god forbid), wouldn't I die — wrong word, but you get the drift — to leap back into all this wonderful life-affirming chaos? Wouldn't I ache to shout at the watchman for not planning for the next water shortage that's suddenly reared its ugly head, and hire that expensive tanker to come over and fill up our dried-up sumps? And as for the unseasonal rain that has the cute habit of flooding the roads, it's simply time to turn on our laptops and go 'online', no matter that no real work gets done during those classes.
Jokes apart, I really think I would.
Because these are small problems. Compared to what I see unfolding around me — wars, genocides, caste-conflicts, murders, victory parades turning to tragedies — a city that is falling apart is small stuff. I just have to hold my breath as a whiff of garbage or the stink of pee wafts through my nostrils, as the bus makes a sudden, sharp turn, and shortly, I can breathe again.
Also, there is that small thing — the people. If nothing else, we have each other.
The receptionist at my GP's clinic tells me (softly) that the later she goes home from the clinic, the worse the commute, and that she's been getting drenched regularly in the pre-monsoon showers; a visit a few weeks later, and a new receptionist is checking my BP. The doctor educates me on the need to drink only boiled and cooled water, as the stomach bug I have may be waterborne. He explains that with all the digging of the roads in the city, the water pipes are getting contaminated, and that the drinking water is possibly getting infected, too. I nod and continue drinking my usual filtered water, and perhaps, manage to frighten that stomach bug away.
Speaking of infections, my problem is that this city has found a way to get under my skin. It's hard to live in it, but I don't think I can live outside of it either.
Maybe it's the sweet sambar served with a hot, oily dosa at my favourite Darshini. Perhaps, the gentle pleasure of reading a few lines in Kannada, whilst not being able to recognise each letter separately anymore, just that the whole makes sense. The old Bangalore lingo my fellow teachers and I slip into when we're complaining about how bad things are — 'No men, the electricity was off all night'. Or, the yellow Tabebuia that never fails to show up in all her glory every spring, lighting up the view from my balcony. Commercial Street and her tailors, who never give you your clothes on time, but always have a polite excuse delivered with a smile. The quiet graveyard on Hosur Road, with its huge shady trees, where, in season, a bed of cream and rose-tipped Pongamia flower buds drown your naked feet as you stand beside the graves of loved ones, sending up a prayer.
All this and so much more.
Like a wise man said, 'If you wake up in the morning, are safe at home, in good health and have enough for the day, you have all the good things in this world'.
Amen to that.
Sulaiman is a writer and teacher